Through the Looking Glass
by LarcSakurai
Summary: They were a world misunderstood. This was what it meant to be a prosecutor.


We are a world beyond comprehension. We are a world vastly misunderstood by the masses, satirized and bombed by negative rhetoric. Stained with blood and wound in carefully woven webs of lies this path we have chosen will haunt us until the final breath. Often I have been questioned as to the justification of this career pursuit and perhaps just as often I find myself questioning the transition from heaven to hell. Alas, I have found myself lacking in any sort of conclusive answer and thus I am left to continuelessly ponder. Whether or not I fill find the answer to these plaguing thoughts in this lifetime is unclear to even me.

Answers have never come easily, of course, I am well accustomed to the life of intrigue. Picking up the fragile pieces of shattered lives and fitting them back together has become the course of my life for several years now and, so far as I see it, will be the path I trod for the rest of my days upon this miserable earth. Beside myself with these thoughts, I wander through the wooded paths on a rather chill autumn noon. The lake is crystal and perfect, smooth as if eternally frozen in time. And then the ages ripple with the wind, disturbing the tranquil surface. Remniscent of my life, I do suppose. How it all was flawless and then suddenly, fate tore across the surface shredding stability and thrusting me onto the stage. Now I had to pick up my own pieces and fit them back together as best I could, leaving behind those tiny fragments that are forever lost in the carpet.

Suddenly I feel cold. The lake seems terrifying. It's a mirror waiting to reveal the innermost workings of my mind, the turmoils that yet plague my soul. The faces of those I have sentenced to the axe waiting to leap from the depths and drag me down to hell with them. Clawing and biting, spouting forth thick streams of blood as I fall down into the bottomless darkness. Darkness. Silence. I can't breathe.. I can't breathe.. My knees give out and I feel the strong earth below me. Don't.. Don't, go away. The earth trembles, or is that my body wrought in fear? I cannot tell and it terrifies me. Go away! Goa way and do not ever return!

Then... it was warm.

A hand brushed my shoulder, drawing me up into warm, chocolate eyes. I saw the light curving around his delicate face, an angel come to lift the devil back to his feet. I wanted to push him away, to deny ever having succumb to such embarassing weakness. Gently, the touch drew me upward and I felt the sun's warmth on my face. The air softened and circuited life back in. His pouty lips moved and he put sound back into the world. I could hear the birds, the lapping of the waves, and the sweet, worried voice of my rival and friend.

He tried to speak but silenced as my fingers found his lips. Taken aback, he fixed me with those confused puppy eyes, curious, seeking. Trying to find the perfect piece of evidence to break down the impregnable fortress erected around my heart. I shake my head, trying to walk away. And yet that hand recahes out to hold me fast. Phoenix begs for answers, wanting to understand. Wanting nothing more than to continue living in the naivety of youth and believe we are still best friends.

Simply, I glance back at the lake.

He takes my hand, the warmth sweeping away the chill from my palm, as we approach the glossy surface. My heart begins to race but the air fails to suffocate. Phoenix's warmth, this comfort, buffers against those nightmares. Hands that have so often dragged me out of the depths of despair to kiss another sunrise. With him I can stare through the glass.

I am unsure what I expect to stare back at me. Will it be a demon? A copy of my mentor? Or the terrified child that cries in the corner of dark elevators begging for salvation? Could I see their faces, mangled and grinning with crooked, wicked smiles probing my living flesh with icy touch? It is difficult to say, for certain, what I would see what I stared down into the looking glass. Closing my eyes I approach the shore until I can almost feel the nip at my ankles. What will I see, here in this vast, omniscent expanse? Angel? Devil? Who am I?

I see... myself.

When I open my eyes, I see dark grey hair falling into a handsome prosecutor's face. Soft grey eyes search the glossy surface, disbeliving. Could the answers to all these questions have been so simple? I bite my lip. No, no, I was the fool. To think that I would see anything but my own reflection. I blink and it remaind unchanging. Again and again, I stare back into my own face. That warmth runs along my arm, his fingers carefully curling over crimson fabric. The sweet smell of pine shampoo tickles my nose and I want nothing more than to pull it closer.

"Don't you see...?" he whispers, as if afraid to stir the silence. "It's you..."

"Me...?"

Phoenix nods. "The face in the looking glass.. You don't see anyone but you."

Myself. My own face. No one elses. There are no demons, there are no monsters. Only the beasts that I fabricate. And yet they are nothing more than such: fabrications.

Words fail as I'm pulled close into his kiss, those soft lips blanking my mind of all unnecessary worry. My arms find his waist and there we embraced for who knew how long. Long shadows fell over the glass, reaching out to touch us but the darkness never came. It reached and reached for us, swept us into it's hold, but never once did I feel it pierce my chest. Not in the arms of my fire bird.

Come what may, I will stare into the looking glass time and again to gaze upon the future that I, and I alone, will create upon its surface.


End file.
